Chapter 4: The Meeting
One of the guards pounded the door with the butt of his spear. "Twelfth Prince, Alistair Drakos, enters!" his voice echoed through the grand hall as the doors groaned open.
Alistair stepped forward, the crimson carpet beneath him stretching toward the elevated throne. The throne room was vast, adorned with towering stained glass windows depicting the Holy Drakos Empire's victories. Golden chandeliers bathed the hall in warm light, but there was no warmth in the figures that occupied the space. Nobles lined the sides, dressed in regal finery, their eyes brimming with disdain and curiosity. High-ranking generals, archmages, and advisors stood in disciplined silence, their presence a testament to the empire's might.
And at the far end, sitting upon a throne carved from dragonbone and gold, was the man who ruled them all.
King Aldric Drakos.
His presence was overwhelming. A mountain of a man draped in imperial regalia, golden hair streaked with silver, his sharp eyes like molten gold. A massive greatsword rested against the throne, a symbol of his unmatched power and mastery of the blade. There was no warmth in his gaze—only judgment.
Beside him stood Queen Eleanor Drakos, Alistair's mother. She wore an elegant mage's dress, embroidered with silver runes that shimmered under the golden light. A finely crafted wand, imbued with ancient enchantments, rested at her side, a testament to her status as an archmage. Her regal posture was unwavering, yet her deep blue eyes betrayed a sadness, a quiet concern as they rested upon her son. She did not speak, but the sorrow in her gaze was enough.
Alistair knelt on one knee, bowing his head. "Your Majesty."
The silence stretched, tension coiling in the air. Then, the king spoke.
"You dare to stand before me after years of insignificance?" His voice was like rolling thunder, carrying the weight of an empire.
Queen Eleanor's fingers lightly clenched the edge of her dress. Her sad eyes darted between her husband and her son, as though silently pleading for leniency.
Alistair did not flinch. He raised his head, meeting his father's piercing gaze. "I stand before you now, Your Majesty. That alone should be enough to prove that I am no longer insignificant."
A murmur rippled through the court. The twelfth prince had always been meek and unnoticed, barely acknowledged by the royal family. Yet today, he spoke with an unfamiliar resolve.
The king's golden eyes narrowed. "Your survival is an anomaly. You have never contributed to this empire. Tell me, why should I not strip you of your title and cast you aside?"
The queen took a shallow breath, her grip tightening slightly. Though she remained silent, the distress in her expression deepened.
Alistair clenched his fists. He had anticipated this. The empire valued strength above all, and he had nothing to show—yet.
"Because I will prove my worth," Alistair declared. "I may not have the strength now, but I will acquire it. Dismiss me if you wish, but I will rise. And when I do, you will see that you did not birth a worthless son."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Then, the king chuckled.
It was a deep, guttural sound, as if he found Alistair's words amusing. The chuckle died quickly, and the king leaned forward slightly. "Bold words, but words alone do not build empires. I will grant you one chance, Alistair. A single opportunity to prove that your existence has value."
The queen exhaled softly, her sorrowful eyes flickering with a mixture of fear and fragile hope.
Alistair's muscles tensed. "What must I do?"
The king smirked. "The annual Trials of the Drakos Bloodline begin in one month. If you wish to remain a prince of this empire, you will participate. And if you fail… you will be stripped of your title and cast into exile."
A heavy weight settled over the court. The Trials were brutal—a test of strength, intelligence, and will. Many of his half-brothers and sisters had trained for years to compete, but Alistair had no such preparation.
Sofia gasped softly behind him, but Alistair kept his face impassive. This was no different from what he had expected. A test. A chance.
A path forward.
Alistair lowered his head. "I accept."
King Aldric leaned back, his expression unreadable. For the briefest moment, something flickered in his gaze—an echo of his own youth, when he too had faced the weight of expectations. At his side, Queen Eleanor's lips parted slightly, her sadness now touched with quiet resignation.
The murmurs of the court grew louder behind him, but Alistair paid them no heed. His mind was already racing.
One month.
One month to prepare for the most dangerous trial of his life.
He would not fail.
As he turned to leave, the king and queen exchanged a glance. For the first time in years, a shared sadness lingered between them—an unspoken pain of watching their son walk a path fraught with peril, one they could not protect him from.
From the noble corner of the court, seven figures observed the exchange with keen interest. The seven dukes—Alistair's uncles—stood with quiet authority, their regal robes a mark of their high status. Beside them, the four leading generals of the kingdom, hardened warriors of countless battles, watched with approving smirks. They remembered a time when the king himself had once displayed such raw determination.